Gumshoe for Two

by Rob Leininger

  “At least we know where it is,” Sarah said. “Now what?”

  “What d’you think?”

  “How ’bout we find a motel?”

  “If this place has one.”

  She slugged my arm. “I’ve seen six of ’em so far, jerk.”

  “Six? You counted them?”

  She smiled. “Yeah. Good thing I didn’t run out of fingers.”

  “Fingers. That’s geeky. See anything you liked?”

  “The Slumberland looked good. Quiet. And there was a pizza place nearby.”

  “Which way?”

  “Back south. Off to the right on the main drag, but the rooms look like they’re facing a side street so it oughta be quiet.”

  “Maybe we can get adjoining rooms,” I said to see how she’d react to what I thought was the best idea I’d had in a month.

  “Coward.”

  Which answered that. At least she didn’t stick out her tongue or call me a monk.

  Five minutes later we reached the Slumberland. In the office she muscled me to one side and said to the lady behind the counter, “We need a room,” then shot me a lethal “shut up” look. Great. Ten minutes later and eighty-eight dollars poorer, I opened the door to unit twenty-six on the second floor and we went in. Yep, two queen-size beds, like the lady said who’d handed Sarah the keys.

  Sarah—or more likely Holiday—stared at the arrangement for a few seconds.

  “Which bed do you want?” I asked.

  She bounced on one of them then stood up. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll figure it out later. I’m starving. Let’s go get us a pizza.”

  Right then, my cell phone rang.

  “I lost twenty dollars at the Tropicana, Mort,” Jeri said. “At a blackjack table.”

  “You oughta arm wrestle drunks. It pays better.”

  “Yeah, right. So, where are you now?”

  “Bend. Oregon.”

  “Bend? What’re you doing way up there?”

  “About to get a pizza, looks like.”

  “That’s a hell of a long way to go for pizza.”

  “And, tomorrow, we’re going to check out that FedEx place where Reinhart’s hand was shipped.”

  “We? Sarah’s with you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Is she there now?”

  “Last I checked, but she’s fast.”

  “Great. Can I talk to her?”

  “Sure thing. Here she is.” I gave Sarah the phone. It seemed as if things went better if I wasn’t around to hear half the conversation, so I went outside and stood on the balcony overlooking the parking lot. I thought it would be terrific if a green Mercedes SUV rolled in right then with Allie and a woman in it, but no such luck. The only thing that came in during the six or eight minutes Sarah was talking with Jeri was a Subaru Outback. A guy in his sixties and a woman about the same age got out and went into a room somewhere on the first floor. But it wasn’t a bad evening to hang out on a second-floor balcony while the girl I was going to spend the night with chatted with my purported fiancée.

  Behind me, the door opened. Sarah gave me the phone. “Jeri wants to talk to you.”

  “How’re you doin’, sweetheart?” I said. Sarah went back in the room and shut the door.

  “It’s late. I’m already in bed. I just thought I’d phone before I conked out.”

  “Big day tomorrow.”

  “Uh-huh. I’m ready for it. And . . . Mort?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I had another talk with Sarah. I know you’ve got that one room, but she said there’s no way anything would happen with you. She just, you know, likes it when you, uh . . . notice her.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  “And I know you like to look. I mean, you’re a guy. It’s what guys do.”

  “Yup. We’re pigs. It’s a tremendous defect, like not tightening lug nuts enough or keeping air filters clean.”

  “No, it’s not. Girls look at guys, too. That’s what Thunder Down Under is all about, in case that got by you. I mean, I like to look.”

  “You do?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Yes. And . . .”

  “And?”

  “And if you didn’t like looking at women—I mean, Sarah, or girls in general—then I’d think you didn’t like looking at me either, and I would hate that.”

  “I love the way you look, Jeri. And I think this one-room thing here in Bend was a lousy idea—not mine, by the way—so as soon as we end this call I’m going to go get another room.”

  “No! I mean, no, don’t do that. Please don’t.”

  “I don’t want you to worry, Jeri.”

  “I’m not worried. This is getting tangled up, but it shouldn’t. It’s not that difficult. It’s just that I trust you—completely. And I trust Sarah, too. She and I had a good long talk. So I don’t want you to get another room because I don’t want you to think I think it’s necessary. It’s not.”

  “Jeri—”

  “Did she tell you about the bicycle thing in San Francisco? She didn’t, did she? I told her I would tell you later, when I get back, but now it looks like I’d better—”

  My head spun. “Bicycle thing? What’s that?”

  “I told her not to say anything, but now I’ve got to tell you. I was on a case in San Francisco earlier this year when they had this nude bicycle thing going on around the Embarcadero. I was on a sidewalk when hundreds of people came by on bicycles, a lot of them not wearing anything at all. Men and women. Almost all the women were topless. A lot of them were in body paint and nothing else, and some were completely naked, no body paint or anything. Everyone was having a lot of fun, and, well . . . maybe it’s weird but I wanted to join in. I wanted to be riding with them.”

  What to say to that?

  “Mort?”

  “I’m here. I’m listening.”

  “When they came by, I suddenly felt like crying. It was so real, all those naked people. So real. They could do that and I couldn’t. People were on the sidewalk with me, watching. It’s called the World Naked Bike Ride. It’s an organized thing, sort of official. Their slogan is, “As Bare As You Dare.” It’s supposed to be a protest, but I don’t think it is, really. It’s just people who decided it would be fun to be naked in public for a while, so they have to have a First Amendment reason to do it. There’s a bike ride in Los Angeles, too, and Seattle, Houston, Melbourne, Australia—all over. Even London and Madrid. Like seventy cities all over the place, thousands of people. Hundreds of thousands of people having fun being free. In Portland last year there were over ten thousand riders. Ten thousand, Mort. I want to do it with Sarah in San Francisco. I’m going to. I want to be that totally free at least once in my life. Sarah said she’ll do it with me, so that’s settled—we’re going to do it next year. I might wear a cache-sexe, but maybe not. I’ll have to think about it. I’m pretty sure Sarah won’t.”

  My mind whirled. These were television buddies?

  “What’s a cache-sexe?” I asked.

  “Look it up. You made me look up boffing, although I had the gist. Anyway, I understand Sarah and how she feels. That’s why I really don’t want you to get another room. I’m just doing a lousy job of telling you it’s okay, because it is.”

  “So . . . let me see if I’ve finally got this straight. What you’re telling me, in your roundabout, rambling, infuriatingly erratic way, is that it’s okay if Sarah’s not always entirely dressed around me.”

  “Oh, jeez, you are such a shithead.”

  “Now that’s a term of endearment I understand.”

  “Well, it is. So anyway, please don’t get another room. I would feel awful if you felt like you had to.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do.” She was silent for a moment, then, “I’m going to do that bicycle ride, Mort. At least topless, but maybe more, I don’t know yet, but I’m going to do it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Mean it?”

  “I’ll watch from the sidelin
es. I’ll take pictures for our old age album. We can laugh at ourselves when we’re eighty. Well, at you anyway, although I’m in a group photo with a bunch of IRS agents, so that one’s a scream. I’ll even help apply body paint to critical areas if that’s what you decide to do.”

  “I’d like all that. Especially the pictures.”

  “Okay, then. Count me in. When is this supposed to happen?”

  “Not for a while. Next March. They meet somewhere around the Ferry Building, down by the bay.”

  “March? That sounds cold.”

  “Not in San Francisco. June and July can be cold. Weather is strange there. Mark Twain wrote about it.”

  “You’ve already researched this bicycle thing.”

  “I looked into it in April, before you and I met, then pretty much forgot about it because I didn’t think I would be able to go through with it—so it’s amazing that you found Sarah, or she found you, whatever. She’s perfect for me. I mean, so we can do that bike ride together. And, you know, just talk about stuff. Really, Mort, she and I are becoming friends, almost like I’ve known her for years.”

  The things I’d never suspected. Each person on the planet is an entire universe of gnarled complexity.

  “Mort?”

  “Yup.”

  “You don’t think I’m too weird, do you?”

  “Not too. Just about right, actually.”

  “But weird?”

  “Everyone’s weird, Jeri. Except me, of course. I’m a freakin’ pillar of normalcy. But for what it’s worth, here’s what I think—for every person out there riding a bike in the buff, a thousand other people wish they could but are afraid to pull that trigger.”

  Softly, she said, “I sure do love you, big guy.”

  “I love you, too. And the world’s gonna go nuts when they see you topless on that bicycle.”

  She laughed. “Thanks. Hearing you say it makes it sound even more wonderful and fun. Well, I better get to sleep. And, Mort?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad I told you. I’m glad you understand.”

  I didn’t know how everything got turned around like that. I was worried she wouldn’t understand. Women.

  “Good night, Jeri. Go get ’em tomorrow.”

  “I will. Night, Mort. Enjoy, you know . . . the scenery.”

  I went back inside the room. Sarah looked up from a textbook. “How is she?”

  “Naked bicycle riding? Yowzer.”

  “She told you about that? Why? I thought she was gonna wait until she saw you again.”

  “She had to because I’m a shithead.”

  “That sounds right.”

  “I don’t know how you two managed to exchange so much information. I wasn’t gone more than half an hour when I left you to talk to her in the bar yesterday.”

  She chewed on her lower lip.

  I said, “Television buddies. There’s more to that story, isn’t there?”

  “Little bit. She gave me her cell number. When you left I called her back, and we talked for over two hours, probably closer to three. I feel like I know her pretty well by now.”

  “So you’ve progressed to telephone buddies. Next up will be bicycle buddies.”

  She grinned. “Guess so.”

  “Naked bike rides. What else came up?”

  “Just . . . stuff.”

  “Sounds like I don’t want to know. And what the hell’s a cache-sexe?”

  “Look it up.”

  “Déjà vu. So how about that pizza, since your communication skills are sucky right now?”

  “Finally. I’m starved. Hey, you gonna ride naked, too? You should.”

  “I’m more a sidelines kinda guy. But I’m a terrific watcher. I’ll be the guy with the leer and the camera.”

  “There’ll be a million cameras out there. We’ll end up on the Internet, guaranteed. But maybe by March we’ll get you loosened up enough to get you on a bike, too.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that. It would take a platoon of Marines to get me out there naked. They’d have to pedal for me, too.”

  “She said you’re kinda tight. Thinks it’s your IRS training, like it gave you a suit-of-armor brain.”

  “Suit of armor . . . me? I don’t—”

  “Yeah, you do.” She grabbed my arm, hauled me toward the door. “Let’s go before I pass out. What kind of pizza do you like?”

  “Anything with meat and cheese on it without anchovies. What the hell else did you two wenches talk about?”

  “Wenches. I like that. I’ll let her know.”

  The place was called Pizazz Pizza of all things, but the pie was first-rate so we left full and happy. Several flat-screen TVs were on in the place. CNN ran a story that showed Reinhart’s wife in front of a half-dozen microphones. The sound was turned off so I didn’t know what she was saying, but it was probably an appeal of some kind to the psycho who’d hacked off her hubby’s hand. She must want the rest of Harry back, hopefully in one piece so they could keep on with that presidential campaign thingamabob that might put her in the White House with him.

  Her name was Julia and she was twenty-six years younger than Reinhart. He’d picked himself up a trophy wife. She was a good-looking woman, would’ve made a Jackie Kennedy kind of First Lady, but that wasn’t likely to happen now that it was likely Harry was dead—or at least had lost the ability to shake, which had been his shtick. Actually, it was never likely either of them would have made it to the White House, Reinhart being a dishonest, conniving son of a bitch with hands deep in taxpayers’ pockets, but since he lost that one hand at least he wouldn’t be grabbing double fistfuls.

  Night had come while we were eating. A block down the street we found a Walgreens where I bought a shirt, underwear, and socks, since I’d forgotten all that in Jeri’s house—our house—when I’d left Reno, and things were starting to get unfresh.

  “How’re you fixed for clothes?” I asked Sarah.

  “Okay. My shirts and pants are okay, and . . . I’ve got one more pair of like panties left.”

  I should have paid more attention to the way she said it, the valley-girl like, the nuance, the slight hesitation, but things like that usually go right over my head.

  Before we left the store she said, “I’ve got to study some more. Couple of hours at least. If you’re gonna be bored, you ought to buy a book or something, like some crosswords or Sudokus.”

  “Sudoku? I’d put a bullet through my head first.”

  “And you’ve got a gun, which is scary. So buy a novel. I can’t study with the TV blaring.”

  I rummaged the shelves, came up with a John Lescroart novel, A Plague of Secrets. I was set. I showed Sarah the title. “Might be something in here about you and Jeri.”

  “Might, yeah.” The way she said it, so matter-of-fact, had me worried all over again.

  “Shower first,” she said, stripping down to panties as soon as we got in the room.

  But Jeri had me trained, so I didn’t feel too guilty when I got a good look at her.

  Holiday turned at the doorway to the bathroom. For an instant I saw her and Jeri riding bicycles like that, side by side. According to Jeri, even panties were optional. Either way, they would cause a riot.

  “We could save water,” Holiday said.

  “How’s that?”

  “Showering together, of course.”

  “Hey, yeah—speaking of things that aren’t going to happen.”

  She looked at me for a moment. “Your loss.” She disappeared. Seconds later water started drumming. I sat on a chair and opened my book. I believe it’s a sign of maturity that I got to page eight and was actually following the story by the time she came out rubbing her hair with a towel.

  “Your turn,” she said. “Coward.”

  I set the novel down. Vapor issued from the bathroom. I looked inside. The mirror was fogged over. I went in and started to shut the door when Holiday stuck her head inside. “You’re gonna shower with your clothes on? How inter
esting. Mind if I watch?”

  “If I want to shower fully dressed, I will. And, no, you can’t.” I pushed her head out and eased the door shut on girlish laughter.

  In recent months, showering had become an iffy undertaking. Not long ago—post IRS—I was showering when a gorgeous dance instructor named Kayla popped in with me and things got sudsy and almost got out of hand. Many people—none of them prudes—would say things got out of hand because nothing got out of hand. Now I was ready to repel any and all boarders should it become necessary, which it didn’t, so I took a leisurely shower with the bathroom door locked and got clean.

  I came out in pants and a shirt. Holiday was at the table in jeans and that T-shirt with the cryptic equation on it, feet bare, nose in a textbook, an industrial-size calculator nearby, notebook, pens, and a nerdish look of concentration on her face. I didn’t want to sit at the table and disturb her, so I set up pillows and stretched out on a bed, turned on a bedside light, and went back to my novel.

  Two hours later I was on page ninety-one and she hadn’t gotten up, hadn’t produced a sound other than rustles of turning pages and little sighs of frustration or delight from time to time, all of which deeply impressed me and gave me new insights into this girl.

  All that sitting around finally got to me. The drive to Bend had been a long one. I felt stiff. I wanted to get out, move around, walk somewhere, so I got up, put on shoes, and headed for the door.

  “Goin’ out,” I said.

  “See you,” she said, an automatic response almost unrelated to my leaving.

  That was how she would be in a library. Focused, able to shut out distractions. Almost a 4.0 student. A one-in-a-million girl with that brain and that body. A living reminder to the rest of the world that life isn’t fair, that luck plays a part, that God throws darts and chuckles at the results.

  I walked a mile and a half down the main drag, came back on the other side of the street, and . . . there was a FedEx drop box at a temporary parking spot at the curb, a white steel box with the distinctive FedEx purple and orange lettering on it.